No Pain, No Rain, No Maine | And then I walked — sarah robison · on the appalachian trail & a life unconventional

No pain, no rain...no Maine.

A phrase that I did not coin, but one that I can most certainly attest to.

My first full week on the trail has proven to test my fortitude through its adversities. It has brought about split fingers that collect grime too tarry to remove without running water. Relentless rain-induced pruned hands and toes. A backpack removal technique that yielded a right forearm hematoma (an executive level bruise) because I was unknowingly harboring all of its weight on the exact same spot each time that I laid it to the ground. And...

A wet mouse to the face.

Yes, you read that correctly. Read on, reader.

I’ve promised to be unabashedly honest with you throughout my trek. You can trust me in my portrayal and also that I will not romanticize my time in the wild. If it’s good- you’ll know. If it’s bad- you’ll know. If I’m homesick, hurting, lonely, or lost- you will know.

That said, I’m going to be frank.

You’d have to drag me out of these woods kicking and screaming, nails in the dirt, to get me off of this trail. I can plead this with confidence because it hasn’t been easy for me, I’ve been grossly tested. This said, I have never felt more confident, alive, and at peace in my life. Give me more miles or deflate me.

Gratitude has become reflexive. I may have to shimmy into chilled, soaking wet clothing for the 3rd day in a row, but if my hands are warm, and I have the funds for a night in town equipped with a shower- I’m straight thankful. I challenge you to adopt the same frame of mind.

I haven’t been addressed by my birth name in days. “Serendipity!!!”, I hear as I crest the next summit, cross the next double yellow line in town, and squat to filter my next quench. We’ve each been gifted a “trail name” by a fellow hiker- a persona that may say something about our personality and history that our given name hasn’t yet been able to capture.

‘Twas the night of March 25th, when the lightning struck as the rain was heavy on our backs, Rod & Real, Indigo, Big Agnes, Deja Vu, Process, myself and Gung Ho sausaged ourselves together on the bed of Tray Mountain Shelter. Our narratives spanning from a 69 year old retired Social Worker out of Iowa to a 20 year old courageous blonde bombshell taking a sabbatical from Tufts, we were all the same in that moment. Each donning our ultra lightweight puffy, stuffed into our sleeping bags trying to simply stay warm and dry, we have a common goal- we each want nothing more than to walk to Maine, but more importantly, to love one another in the process.

A community that became self-serving. I carried Rod’s pen for 2 days after I saw that he had forgotten it after a late night journaling session, only to successfully return it to him after serendipitously crossing paths on the decent of Rocky Mountain. He, in turn, shared his filtered water with me during the storm. I offered to carry his trash into town because I was getting off trail sooner than he was. He cut his seating pad in half so that Process was comfortable. Process hung our bear bags and then played harmonica. The kids (Deja Vu, Indigo, and Big Agnes), given their namesake for being 20 years my youth, shared their peach rings and Twizzlers, as Gung Ho saved me from the MOUSE. And I saved Gung Ho from himself, providing quiet companionship from across the shelter floor as he slept after countless nights of insomnia.

It was 1am when I thought that it was my wet glove that had fallen from the rafter that I had pinned it to dry upon... SMACK to the left cheek! “Help! Help! Heeeeeeeeeellllllppppp! This is my thing! My thingggggg!” If there was one thing that could get me off trail aside from a family emergency, it was a very wet, very alive rodent face planting me while I slept. Gung Ho’s heroism in preventing the monster from playing Chutes and Ladders in my sleeping bag wasn’t enough. I spun his Croc to very strategically send the mouse circling airborne. As I proudly dusted off my hands, the mice brigade was chanting, “you’re in OUR house now, sweet Sarah...” I would’ve preferred to wake up to a pack of coyotes straddling me. I wish my perpetrators to make themselves known.

I was now overdue for a “Zero” day, not to be confused with a “Nero” day. “Zero” defined as a day that no (zero) miles are hiked and the body of the hiker is granted a brief window of recovery. Whereas a “Nero” (near zero) day describes a day where very few trail miles are hiked, as would happen when arriving in or leaving a town. (Cred: halfwayanywhere.com)

My “zero” day of “rest” consisted of confiscating additional toilet paper to support my next jaunt...charging my headlamp, phone, battery pack, and beacon...gauging the amount of my remaining fuel by inverting it in water and purchasing more...walking to the local grocery store and resupplying with the sufficient amount of food (not too much, yet enough) to feed me until my next resupply which I’ve also taken the time to preemptively predict...throwing a load into the washer...showering...then transferring to the dryer so that my duds are clean for me to wear to dinner, as I only have the same ensemble for town as I have for the trail...I soak my cook pot, water bottles, and utensils in hot water and shower gel...clip my toenails to prevent blisters and breakdown...refill my hanging hand sanitizer...and make it to the Post Office to send myself a bounce box filled with shampoo, a razor, and dental floss to my next destination of...relaxation...or so they say.

I wouldn’t trade this for the world. It’s new. It’s challenging. It’s completely exciting. It’s freedom at its finest folks.

Hey Dad- if I can handle this, you BETTER keep your word. You grow that beard until I make it home. It’s Santa or bust.

And now I will walk. To Hiawassee Brewery.

(Integrating video below, just click on the ▶️ when overlaid on photo!)